Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Getting By By Ken Delpit Success used to mean acing a calculus exam. Success now means increasing a recipe’s called-for two tablespoons by one-third. Success used to mean deking a defender and swishing a jumper as time ran out. Success now means changing direction on the living room carpet and not tripping over the cat toy. Success used to mean getting several Jeopardy! questions before the contestants did. Success now means remembering why it is I suddenly got up from the recliner and walked into the kitchen. Success used to mean handling a ten-digit long-distance telephone number that is to be called, a ten-digit telephone number that is to be charged, and a twelve-digit billing number, all from memory, while tapping into a pay phone and thinking ahead of what I intend to say. Success now…
Category: Sparks
Memorable writing that sparks imagination.
A Place in the Sun
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. A Place in the Sun By CM Riddle I often find myself writing about the past. It’s easy to remember and type the facts. But today I am writing about the future. Instead of facts, I’ll define the future and bring it into reality. My vision of the future is inspired by a song from the past. Tuning to Spotify I hear Stevie Wonder belt, “There’s a place in the sun where there’s room for everyone, gonna find me a place in the sun.” The lyrical line weaves its way through my thoughts and soon I imagine the most amazing place. A place without pain or suffering. A place filled with hope and everyday joy. That’s where I want to be. Suddenly an esoteric feeling hits deep within my bones. Not knowing if I will live…
Dancing Through Life
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Dancing Through Life By Diane Dupuis Dancing can transport you as you get lost in the music and lyrics, simply connecting with the beat, and potentially learning how truly magnificent our bodies are. We are all born to dance. Look at children. They dance in their seats long before they can walk. They don’t even need music. Unfortunately, as we grow, we learn to be self-conscious or feel “not good enough.” Many people stop dancing when the joy is gone, and all they feel is pressure. Added to that is the pressure of having the “perfect” form and the “perfect” dancer body. Some dance classes can add the stress of competition or feeling the need to fit in. Many studies have highlighted the amazing health benefits of dancing. Not only is it good for your heart…
A Break-up Letter
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. A Break-up Letter By CM Riddle Dear Time, Forget You! I am tired of the way you sneak up on me. Stealing moments and making plans that take forever to prepare, then the event flies by. I long for the days of following the sun and the moon and using its rhythm to play my own tune. You cause great stress upon me, as others in my life have depended on you so much that they expect me to follow you, too. Timecards, appointments, luncheons, and for God’s sake, Christmas! Give me a break, would you please? I mean, the way you slip through my fingers! And as if the ticking tocks you whisper in my ear are not enough, you decided to line my face and give me grey my hair. I need to get down and up…
Advice From a Dog
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Advice From a Dog By DSBriggs Find yourself a good owner. In addition to catering to your every whim a good owner should incorporate these other qualities, I explain below. Get someone with good knees because they will need to get up and down when you want to go in and out. Also someone with an opposable thumb so they can operate a can opener to serve you wet food. Which, of course, you should refuse to eat at first. Gradually your owner will succumb to your training. This is good when selecting snack treats. Note your owner’s preference (usually the cheapest) as the one treat you refuse. Get someone who knows that there is a difference between walks: fast, get down to business or mosey which should be called nosey. Serious nose work cannot be rushed. Train your owner…
Where I Live
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Where I Live By Ken Delpit When I walk into where I live, I smell memories. This is where we first beheld what would be our first and only home, from the inside. Over there was where his first, very tentative, steps took place, from the parquet mahogany coffee table to my luring, waiting hands. Right there on the carpet is where she often would get rolled up into a daughter burrito, with auntie-made birthday blanket as tortilla, and with generous gobs of tickling cheese. When I walk into where I live, I smell unfulfilled should-haves and wish-I-hads. I wish I had done this, that, and especially that, better as a parent, and for that matter, as a husband. I should have taken care of that household repair long ago. I should have spent more time…
Wild Man of the Hunt
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Wild Man of the Hunt By CM Riddle Mom grew up in the country with her brother and sister, along with what seems like hundreds of Italian immigrant relatives. Mom’s great-grandparents Albina (the mean one who kept a lid on the candy jar) and Rosalina (the sweet one who didn’t have a lid on the candy jar) were sisters. They sailed into San Francisco from Luca Italy in the late 1800’s with their husbands, who were brothers; Pietro and Romolo. While making great efforts to become a part of the new world, the family still clung to ways and traditions from Italy. Working on their land they grew vegetables and flowers, and made wine. Their families thrived in West Marin. Rosalina, or as Mom called her, Noni Rosie, had an original “bed and breakfast.” She hosted…
Winter’s Walk
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Winter’s Walk By Cheryl Moore On these dark mornings I feel the fog’s kiss on my cheek As though waking me to a new day; So unlike a much drier place I once lived so many years ago Where dust storms were more likely. I walk to the river where The fragrance of wild fennel fills the air Reminding me of the black liquorish I loved as a child. On the muddy banks wild fowl often appear On their daily hunt, bringing to mind They too fill their senses. We are not so unlike in our goals. When Chery Moore came to California in the early 1960’s, she realized she’d found her home. Then moving to Petaluma in the 70’s, she was as close to paradise as she’d ever be. Travel has taken her…
Marshmallow Webs Between My Fingers
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Marshmallow Webs Between My Fingers By Robin Mills It’s a summer morning on Granville Avenue, my grandparent’s home. The wafting smell of Sanka, released by boiling water poured over freeze-dried crystals in the bottom of a cracked and stained white porcelain mug, slinks out of the linoleum floored kitchen with yellow counter tops, sails down the hall to our bedroom where we sleep, our heads on flattened pillows and our little bodies under mothball infused quilts. Dragging our summer-tanned and happily worn bodies to the table, twisting fists dislodging sleep from our eyes, we sit, awaiting our breakfast. For the kids, ¼ cup Sanka, ¾ cups milk and a heaping teaspoon of brown sugar. I stir the mixture, from brown and white swirls to a tan much like the color the summer sun has laid on…
I Know Now
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. I Know Now By Mary O’Brien I know now not to bet on a sure thing. Christmas caroling with Grandpa and the grandkids at a nursing home the Saturday before The Big Day? Piece of cake…and there would be cake and treats for all participants afterwards. The perfect ending to a memory-making afternoon. This I had promised. I know now that my 86-year-old father, once blessed with a deep, rich and mellow bass voice now sings 1.75 pitches above the tone for which he aims. You know, the melody everyone else is singing a Capella because no musicians showed up. I leaned toward my oblivious and progressively hard of hearing dad, aiming what was left of my contralto towards his left ear. I had lost my voice the day before and at this point all I…